Last Call
by Jane the Frog on the Wall
Summary: After the happenings of "Middle Child," somebody has to tell Logan...Jondy and Logan co-star.


title: last call  
series: sibling rivalry (04)  
by: jane, the frog on the wall  
rating: PG-13, for naughty, naughty words that little children probably know by now, but shouldn't. Ah, well.   
spoilers: "and jesus brought a casserole"  
disclaimer: Once upon a time, there was a little girl. And she was verry little, and didn't know much about copyrights or complicated things with big words. And one day this little girl wrote a fic, using somebody else's characters, which was very illegal. But then she told people they weren't hers, in a disclaimer, and it was a little less illegal.   
notes: Content in this fic was, again, inspired by Kate Bolin's BtVS Challenge In A Can generator. My original challenge was Gunn -- pencil -- enraged. "She" is Jondy, this time, "he" is Logan.  
feedback: send all questions, comments, death threats and everything else concerning the fic should be sent to Happygirl_com@yahoo.com  
  
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She gets to tell him. Of course, she'd be the one telling him, even though she was nowhere near Seattle when it actually happened. It's her job, because Zane and Krit and Syl are off introducing Max to her friends, pleading with her employers, too giddy to face him. But she can, of course. She thinks about that saying, the one about how it's always the quiet ones, and thinks that it can have more than one connotation. It's always the quiet ones that go crazy and shut themselves up in a huge fucking rock. Tower, she corrects. Concrete. Right. She brings the car to a stop, pulls the keys out of the ignition and sits, not ready to enter the building. She wishes she could have Cam with her, or Zane, or maybe even Krit. Always ready with a stupid joke, a smile, something to take the edge off the fear, something she could never manage. She grabs a crumpled paper bag out of her pocket and pops a Rolo into her mouth, licks her lips with a slice of pink tongue. Figures the sugar high will help her forget, for all of ten seconds.   
  
Starts the climb, up the stairs since the elevators stopped working just after the pulse. One...two...nobody's seen him for weeks, but they all know he's up here. Writing, crying...if she listens hard enough, she can hear his screaming some nights from her own high place, the roof of his penthouse. Her lips stretch in a bitter smile, thinking about how he must scare the people he used to work so hard to save, or so she's been told. All she can see in him is a crazed, selfish, rich boy who doesn't care enough to move on with his life. She sighs, knowing that seeing him is going to be an ordeal she doesn't need, a drain on what little energy she has left...for the first time in months, she's sleepy.   
  
He knows what day it is today, knows it's been exactly three months since he told Original Cindy that Max was dead, one month and fifteen days since he climbed the stairs to what has become his prison, a concrete barrier between him and the world he wanted to save. He knows they'll come for him soon, doesn't want to go because he hasn't finished writing for her yet, can't think of anything beautiful enough to be associated with her face. He wanted her back, always wanted her to come back to him and be alive and bright and Max again. But she never was. She was dark, and dead, and broken. She wasn't his Max anymore. He hears her footsteps on the stairs, feather-light but loud to his ears, padded by silence in the three weeks since he's used his voice. No. No, he can't go, he isn't ready. As she opens the door, he decides. He won't leave.   
  
Slowly, almost timidly, she edges into the room where she last saw him. The room where she and Syl pleaded with him - stopped just short of dragging him - to go downstairs, to face the world, get over himself. He's there, covered in wood shavings, tears, and saliva, scribbling frantically and muttering to himself. She coughs. He keeps writing, not acknowledging her presence. She walks toward him, puts a hand on his shoulder. He starts, breaking the tip of his pencil stub against the page, turning furious eyes to face her. "What?" His eyes are shining with some inner light, his face unshaven, clothes torn. "What do you want from me now, you crazy bitch? What do you want...?"  
  
She blinks, twice. Once at "bitch," twice at the fact that he calls her crazy. If she had a mirror, she'd show him the crazy one, but she doesn't know how much good that'd do. She thinks about Syl, tries to remember what little sister told her on the way to Manticore, day of the rescue. How he used to be nice, used to make Max happy, maybe this'll get him back. It didn't. She doubts he knows what's going on outside his tower, doubts he knows what's going on outside his mind. She crouches, puts her face close to his, flares her nostrils at the overpowering stench he carries. "Logan..." she starts, tries to be gentle despite his callousness. "Logan, it's Max. There's something you should know about her now."  
  
He gives her a look, and it's like the bottom just fell out of his tentative hold on reality. She rolls her eyes and grips his arm - hard enough to bruise - so he'll pay attention to her. It doesn't work, she eases her hold before she can hear the crunch of bone as he starts to shake and wail. "No...no...." he's looking around now, wild and uncertain and considering the option of jumping. "Not Maxie...not my Max...she's not..."  
  
As he crumbles into sobs, she grabs him by the shoulders, again leaving bruises in the shape of her grip, and turns him to face her. "No," she says, and her voice is so solid that he shuts up. "She's not. She's better. Logan, she's going to try. You have to come down now."  
  
At the word "down," his face goes dark. She sighs, and grabs his wrist in an iron grip that he knows he can't escape from. He screams. He's not ready. He won't go...she wonders how a five-year-old could be as big and as heavy as he is, as she hoists him over her shoulder and starts to carry his struggling form down the stairs. "You can't do this!" he yells, echoes making her ears ring as he pounds on her back with fists that she can barely feel. "You can't do this to me! I'm Eyes Only!"  
  
She tries to think of what Krit would do, tries to come up with a witty response involving the absurd - rubber chickens and paperclips are what comes to mind. But she never really had the gift of humor that her brothers did, doesn't really see the need for it as she rolls her eyes, and clips his feet against the walls. "That's *nice!* Now shut up or I'll break your jaw."  
  
He stops for a minute, hiccoughs, and gives her two half-hearted thumps with his fists. "You *bitch.*" he says, and she blinks. She thinks about how that might bother her, if she hadn't been brought up by Lydecker. "You stupid bitch, she'll hate me. She won't love me if she sees me like this."  
  
She sighs, and props him up against the railing. One hand rests against her hip, she flicks him between his eyes with the other. He gives her a look that's half hurt, half severely injured dignity, to which she responds by rolling her eyes. "Junior, allow me to suggest something." He's still moody, but she continues. "Go home, and have a shower. Shave, get yourself something to drink, and get over yourself. She's depending on you to be strong for her, so you have to be strong. You have to be sane, first. Then you have to be strong for her."  
  
He pauses for a full minute, grips the railing with white knuckles as he thinks and she silently counts the seconds. He doesn't want...doesn't want to give in. Wants to stay up in the high places where it's safe, where he can watch the world and wait for her to come to him, sweep him off his feet. Sighs, and nods to her. She releases him, hears the electronic buzz of the exoskeleton as he stands on his own. He puts a hand on her wrist, gives her a look that's part resentment, part gratitude, and starts her name. "Jondy..."  
  
She rolls her eyes, gives him the tiniest edge of a smile. "I know. I'm incredible. You think you can make it downstairs by yourself, or should I carry you?"  
  
He nods again, he's okay, and they walk down the stairs in silent understanding. High above, in what used to be a restaurant, scattered papers lie among wood shavings, bits of eraser, and a pencil stub. One piece, dirtier and covered with more tearstains than the rest, lies on the windowsill, holding its own against the tiny breaths of wind that make their way through the broken windows. As she starts his car and roars away into the night, it slowly falls back into the room, forgotten. He's done with that, now.  
  
/: Last call for freedom, the train leaves soon. Hope the conductor knows where he's going, the passengers are all so lost... :/  
  
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[[[End]]] 


End file.
